Festive Activities
by ink and ashes
Summary: It's Christmas in the Uesugi-Shindou home - and it's their first together. Shuichi wants everything perfect... Eiri wants Shuichi (in)gloriously naked beneath him. A large dilemma - and quite possibly the shortest thing I've ever written. Merry Christmas.


**Festive Activities**

"So—the pink balls with the white tinsel, or the purple balls with the silver tinsel?"

Hard yellow eyes narrowed, almost glaring at the pink-haired baka he'd claimed as his own. Clad in a Santa-suit ol' Kris Kringle would never don—unless Santa lost a few hundred pounds, un-aged a few decades, and suddenly became very effeminate—it was hard for the blonde to really focus on the question; how he'd managed to wind up in this situation was almost completely beyond him—but he was here now, and he only had one thing in mind.

Which had nothing to do with ornamental Holiday balls.

"What's the difference?" He commented offhandedly, trying not to let his little vocalist's outfit tweak with his mind too much—but it was failing, as his writer's imagination suddenly became a curse, visualizing any and every sick and twisted fantasy lying dormant. The mind-bogglingly snug red suede pants hung dangerously low on his slender hips, flaring a little near the large, white-fluffed cuffs, the belt and entire waistband of the pants encased in the white, fluffy substance; the decorative drawstrings were mere rolled bits of the suede material, the ends being gigantic fluffy balls of that white stuff—and they lay tantalizingly against a very coveted part of his anatomy.

And that was only the pants—Jesus, but he felt as if he was going insane. What kind of person would make such a tight pair of pants—and what kind of psychotic bastard would _sell_ them to Shuichi?! Was it some kind of personal vendetta? What had he done to endure this kind of torment.

_'Calm, Eiri—calm.'_

Thank God for cigarettes.

The shirt was more like a vest—and barely that. The edges were also, like the waistband of those horrifyingly tempting pants, encased in that fluffy shit—it was starting to annoy him—and it had a _single_ black button. Why? Because the damned top stopped _exactly _where the singer's taut, but deliciously soft midriff begin, drawing extra special attention to the smooth expanse of flesh and the adorable bunny bellybutton ring found there. There were no sleeves to be found. Were he to turn, decorative drawstrings would be dangling from the cutesy bow elaborately sported there, the fluffy-ball endings bouncing softly against the back of his firm and slender thighs.

Which drew more attention to his ass, more than anything.

_'Those pants. . .' _His firm and deliciously round rear was currently obscured from view, but just _knowing _it was there was tantalizing in the extreme. _'Damn it—I gotta get a hold of myself.'_ He'd just finished a story before his deadline—giving him an entire month before worrying about his hysterical editor. Shuichi had jumped at the opportunity, asking the mildly-tired Eiri to help him with holiday decorations—Eiri, suffering from post-deadline trauma, agreed. He'd blown off a week of sleep—and a week of Shuichi—and now, he feared, he was truly paying for it; why else did he feel more like a dog in heat than the ever-composed Eiri Yuki?

"Yuki!" Shuichi frowned, those succulent lips of his tilting downwards; Eiri clenched his eyes closed for a second, banishing the image that came to mind at the thought. "Please—take this seriously! I want it to look perfect—it'll be our first Christmas together!"

He surveyed his young lover. Those violet eyes of his—so beautiful—were wide and innocent, unknowing of the pervert that had once been Eiri Yuki. Rapidly growing pink hair hung loosely around his jubilant face, his red half-gloved hands holding the items under observation.

Shuichi sighed. "Nevermind." He turned, holding up the ornaments up against the tree to see which might look best, his back facing the blonde writer.

Eiri snapped.

With a small growl, Eiri launched himself from the couch. His long legs ate up the distance between them and he viciously pinned the shorter man against the wall, causing him to drop the ornaments. He gasped and the blonde attack the brat's neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh where the neck met shoulder. Showing his impatience, he ground himself against the cleft the pants clearly revealed between the singer's rear-end—he was driving himself insane again. Through the thick haze of arousal, he was pleased to hear the small moan of pleasure. "Yuki—I'm not done decorating. . ."

"It can wait." His voice was a growl—signifying that Eiri was _going_ to screw the living shit out of his boyfriend one way or another. To hell with decorations or appointments or sleep, even. As far as Eiri was concerned, all that mattered was sex.

And getting those damned pants off of Shuichi.

"But Yuki. . ."

"The pink then." More whimpers came from Shuichi. Eiri removed the vest with no trouble at all. Those pants were being surprisingly stubborn, however . . . where was the zipper to this thing?

"Honestly?"

"If it shuts you up."

"Yuki." Another frown—which quickly turned into a moan when Eiri finally found the zipper in the front and undid the boy's fly, his fingers brushing against something that was suddenly _very _attentive.

"Fine—I'll help decorate in the morning; right now, the only adornment I want _better_ stop talking about holiday ornaments."

"Or what?" Good—he was getting into the spirit of things, judging by his teasing. It was no challenge to bring the giggling brat over to the couch, getting rid of those skin-tight pants at the same time. Within seconds, the little baka was completely compliant in his arms, like a pile of goo. Eiri ducked his head and captured his half-opened mouth with his own, one hand putting out his cigarette and the other undoing his own fly. Slender arms slithered around his neck and the blonde settled his weight comfortably atop his naked couchmate, nestling his pelvis between inviting thighs.

"Or Santa's gonna get a very grumpy Yuki for Christmas." And he slid the point home.

Literally.


End file.
